Morning Coyote is led by Sawyer, lead singer and rhythm guitarist, alongside Ryan on lead guitar, Ryden on bass, and Braeden on drums.

Online, the genre is listed as alternative.

It’s a category that leaves room for uncertainty. Something that might bend, shift, or refuse structure. In practice, it only tells you that you’ll have to listen to understand what’s happening.

Morning Coyote makes full use of that room.

Sawyer is kneeling on the floor, shaping sound through a cluster of guitar pedals. He’s picking the same few notes repeatedly, quick and deliberate, moving between them as he adjusts the tone. Pick. Adjust. Pick again. The character of the sound changes subtly each time.

It doesn’t immediately register as the start of a song.

Behind him, out of focus, Braeden is crouched low near the kit, crashing cymbals to build atmosphere around what Sawyer is forming. He rises and settles at the drums just before the turn, timing his movement with what he knows is coming.

The tension tightens. The repetition locks in. The feeling changes just enough to signal that the search is over.

Without announcement, the song is in motion.

The band met at MacEwan.

Sawyer had been writing since junior high and high school, but he hadn’t imagined performing the songs. A friend suggested they could be played live. He’s spoken about being surprised he hadn’t considered it sooner.

Ryan, Ryden, and Braeden came in first as friends, then as collaborators, and eventually as essential parts of the sound.

Braeden stepped in for an early show when another drummer couldn’t make it. For one show at the Aviary, Sawyer wanted upright bass. Ryden learned nearly the full set on upright for that performance, then returned to electric the following gig.

From the start, the songs adjusted to whoever was playing them, expanding as each new voice entered the room.

In Election Day, a refrain returns again and again:

“I’m sorry you thought I loved you
I don’t love anyone”

The melody stretches the line out gently. The phrasing softens the delivery. The words themselves carry the weight. Each repetition cuts a little deeper.

It’s the kind of lyric that stays with you. It feels spoken to someone specific.

Elsewhere in the song, lines like “nothing excites me like cheap gasoline” stand out in their simplicity. There’s something almost wry in it — a brief flicker of humour before the song settles back into its unease.

The structure moves freely. Sections lengthen and narrow without announcing a chorus. The instrumentation carries much of the movement, but when the lyric arrives, it leaves a mark.

As the first song in the room, it establishes the terms.

Lattice Climbing begins in a restrained groove, played with a loose, unforced feel. Almost a Sunday-morning hangover mood, melancholy but not heavy. The rhythm carries you forward without revealing where it’s headed. The vocal remains steady. It feels manageable.

Beneath that surface, pressure builds.

After “I just wanted a window I could climb through,” a line that feels unguarded and quietly revealing, the song opens into a brief instrumental lull. Space widens.

When the second verse enters, a heavier electric layer comes with it. The mood noticeably deepens.

The drums tighten and the pulse quickens as Sawyer carries the verse with increased intensity.

Ryan’s guitar signals the move before the vocal follows. When Sawyer reaches “Can I come over, can I see you today,” the desperation is already audible.

The scream pushes upward, then collapses into a brief, exhausted drop. He returns immediately, raspy and strained, repeating “I just wanted a window I could climb through,” the words now sounding less reflective and more like something shouted toward a lit room above him.

The band drives into a final crash-out. Everything releases at once. The jam breaks apart.

As the noise thins, Sawyer kneels again, pulling tones from the guitar that resemble distant sonar fading into space.

The ending dissipates rather than resolves.

Recording changes the posture of a song.

Live, arrangements can expand or fracture and then disappear into the next version. In the studio, a version has to settle.

When they record, the band makes deliberate decisions about what that moment will be. Ideas are refined. Layers established. The form is fixed long enough to be captured.

Once recorded, that take holds in time, even as the song continues to evolve live.

When Sawyer speaks about the Edmonton music scene, his affection for it is clear.

He's also aware of its scale. Expansion beyond the city feels inevitable. At the same time, the community matters. Promoters. Other bands. Venues that give young artists room to try things.

There’s real appreciation there.

An understanding that even if the music travels, this is where it began.

This session runs just over twenty minutes.

Three songs. Fully realized in this moment.

The camera stays close enough to watch subtle decisions happen. Slow pushes toward Sawyer during the most exposed moments leave little room to look away. The framing follows the tension of the music.

Morning Coyote may file themselves under alternative.

In this session, what holds your attention is the willingness to let a song edge toward instability and continue forward anyway.

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